


two more years

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 18:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Charles has to bargain.





	two more years

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry. Read the tags. It’s (almost) all there.
> 
> Warning for implied mentions of Jules.

Success entails, by definition, sacrifice. This is what it means to be a prodigy: he’ll do whatever it takes to get to the highest echelons, to finally be part of the _macchina grande_ behind his childhood dream.

_Whatever it takes_, he thinks, and slowly unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall from his dirty shoulders on to the pristine floor. He looks out the full-length windows, over the gloomy afternoon washing over Maranello.

“Come here,” Maurizio says, older and intimidating and everything that goes with being the boss of Scuderia Ferrari.

Charles obeys, how could he not? He kneels between the wide V of Maurizio’s legs, puts on the best dreamy look he can muster, young and willing to debauch himself for the sake of his career. The tiles feel harsh under his skin, but he keeps a straight face, brushing his cheek against the inside of Maurizio’s thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips; they’re painfully chapped to the point of cracking, and he reckons he shouldn’t be appealing at all.

Truth be told, Charles understands very little about his current predicament, and it’s likely for the best. 

Maurizio deftly unzips his trousers, exposing the outline of his erection under his boxers, and Charles can’t help the blush that creeps up his cheeks. He’s no stranger to sex, God forbid, he’s done it with Giada more times than he cares to admit, and still he feels like a complete virgin right now.

He inhales sharply, steeling himself for the worst, and reaches out to cup Maurizio’s dick through his damp underwear. He’s not fully hard, yet he’s already an intimidating size. Charles wonders how many men have been in his position, overeager prospects on their knees, a bunch of pseudo-wunderkinds Maurizio never even considered for a seat.

His mind comes to a screeching halt before it can think about the most obvious candidate in his life, much to Charles’ relief, and he slips his fingers down Maurizio’s waistband instead of giving it any attention. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Go ahead,” Maurizio says, nodding at him.

Charles does: his shaky hand wraps around Maurizio’s cock, slowly sliding the foreskin up and down. He’s unsure whether teasing is allowed, whatever that concept entails, but decides to play it safe, leaning close enough for his breath to ghost over the precome gathering at the tip.

Giving blowjobs to men in their sixties isn’t in Charles’ résumé. He gingerly wraps his lips around the thick shaft, holding on to Maurizio’s thighs for some leverage. He guesses it feels fucking awful, and his mouth is probably too dry to be any good, and—

Maurizio shifts his hips slightly, the head of his dick bumping against the roof of Charles’ mouth, and a rush of pride fills Charles’ stomach: I did this. I’m really good at something. I’m succeeding when it matters.

He’s special, a prodigy even when he’s down on his knees.

Two weeks later, he signs his first contract with Ferrari, full of deceiving small print, and the bittersweet taste of Maurizio’s come lingers on his tongue, disgusting, terrifying, arousing.

* * *

When it comes to keeping his drive, it’s both easier and harder than the first time. Easier because he’s grown accustomed to the offices in Maranello, the harsh words and expectations piling on his shoulders; harder because it isn’t Maurizio he has to deal with, not anymore, and Charles can’t handle the fear of the unknown.

He forces himself to calm down, tension ebbing from his tense shoulders, and knocks.

“Come in,” a voice calls. 

Charles opens the door and looks at Mattia. “Hi,” he says, already bashful; it’s part of the charm, talking as though he has no idea what he’s about to do. At least that’s what Maurizio used to enjoy.

“It’s always a pleasure to have you here,” Mattia says, and Charles almost believes him, like this stupid arrangement is about who he is as a person, not his perky arse or the youthful faces he can make mid-blowjob. “Do you want to have a seat?”

“Yes, please,” Charles says, but instead of taking the gaudy chair in front of Mattia, he slowly walks around the desk and sprawls himself across Mattia’s lap, arms draped over his broad shoulders.

Mattia is a man of few words in the pit lane, and turns out the same applies to hooking up with him. Charles grinds against Mattia’s thigh, swaying his hips until he feels a hand on his cheek, tilting his face so their lips brush dangerously close.

He never did this with Maurizio. It always stayed below the belt, impersonal, a business transaction between two men who were mature enough to handle the bad side of the industry. Some kind of fucked up symbiosis, even; Charles likes to think the burning need was mutual.

A knot clogs Charles’ throat, but he glances down at Mattia’s lips, thinking _fuck it_, and presses their mouths together, sloppy, dirty, near painful. He wants this. He needs this—the chaotic buzz of the Ferrari garage, Xavi’s garbled Italian crackling through the radio, the prancing horse on his car, for himself, for dad, for—

“You’re beautiful,” Mattia murmurs. 

“Thank you,” Charles says awkwardly; he can’t hear a compliment, however insincere, without replying. He looks down to where his thigh is slotted between Mattia’s legs. “Do you want me to…?”

“Yes,” Mattia says. “I want you to ask for it.”

The words are heady coming out of his mouth, his stomach and dignity sinking together. “Please, Mattia,” Charles croons, lips cherry red and swollen, half-true, half-fake, half-boy, half-driver. “I want you to fuck me.” 

“Do you? What a dirty boy.”

It hits close to home. “Yes,” he says, staring straight into Mattia’s eyes. “Mettimelo dove vuoi, vienimi dentro, _please_.”

Mattia’s large hands knead the soft flesh of his arse, and Charles yields, lets Mattia fuck him until he’s sore and sticky come is trickling down his thighs.

It earns him two more years.

**Author's Note:**

> End Italian reads “put it anywhere you want, come inside me.”
> 
> I’m still singlemalter on Tumblr.


End file.
